Part First: The Hart Assurgent: Chapter 5

Chapter 5:

Emily seemed to end up sitting next to Professor Snape at meals far too often to suit her, impishly enough – he inevitably chose the place at the extreme right end of the table, and no one ever seemed to fight for the privilege of sitting next to him. As she was usually the last person to arrive for meals (she wasn't doing anything for the stereotype that the Fae were all hopelessly late to everything), it was usually the last seat available.

The daily schedule at Hogwarts was her routine now – breakfast at seven, first classes at eight, dinner at noon, supper at six. Owl post arrived with breakfast every morning. Emily rarely received anything in the mail, as her family would have found it difficult to get messages to her by owl, and the old pure-blooded branch of the Swains were not given to writing chummy letters to their Arcadian half-sister. Since arriving at Hogwarts, she had received only a few letters and postcards from old schoolmates in France, and the Apparition-licence renewal forms she had requested from the Department of Magical Transportation.

So when she received that mysterious package by owl post the day after she drank dandelion wine in the Three Broomsticks with Lucius Malfoy, she was as delighted as a first-year girl getting a letter from a secret admirer.

A large black eagle owl swooped low over the high table and dropped a large envelope wrapped in heavy parchment toward her. It was addressed in a wonderfully elegant, calligraphic hand. There was no return address, but the parchment carried an imposing, beribboned wax seal embossed with a stylised M.

Inside, encased in a velvet envelope that was a beautiful thing in itself, she found a pair of black gloves – the sort of helplessly expensive silk-lined kidskin that made the silhouettes of a woman's hands into art. She slipped them on, and felt the lining ignite with a soft warmth that penetrated to the bones of her fingers.

There was a parchment card enclosed as well –

Dear Emily,

I simply can't abide the idea of you being bloody cold all of the time.

Yours,

Lucius

She let the card fall back into the box, terribly flattered.

"What, is it your birthday?" Snape's inflectionless voice said.

"No. I just have a very considerate old friend," she said with a small smile.

"Oh. Lucius Malfoy?"

She turned hard in his direction – then noticed the wax seal sitting in plain sight on the table.

"His father knew my father," she said, perhaps a shade too defensively.

They finished breakfast in silence. She didn't exchange another word with Professor Snape that day, but that evening, she wrote a long fat letter to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy with all the news at Court, and thanking Lucius for his thoughtful gift.

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The following day, she met her fencing class in the full practice dress of a Fae fencing master: the full hauberk with a torso of scale armour and chain mail sleeves, over a kidskin leather tunic, breeches and boots. Over the armour, she put a plastron of quilted, padded grey suede leather, secured in place with a leather belt. She left off the chain mail cowl and hood she would have worn into a true battle; to practice the light rapier with these teenage children, a Muggle epee fencer's mask would do. Heavy padded suede gauntlets that covered her wrists to mid-forearm completed the protective gear that would allow her to run through endless practice drills, getting jabbed and thwacked by dozens of sometimes clumsy, sometimes aggressive, and often overenthusiastic beginners – without injury.

Her students took the first few minutes of the class to properly dress themselves – padded, long-sleeved fencing jackets of heavy canvas, suede kneepads, heavy gauntlets like her own, and fencing masks. She had laid out a row of slender silver practice swords on the grass at the front of the class.

"Now, you're all probably wondering why you have to wear all this heavy stuff, including that funny mesh helmet on your head. That's because this – " at which point she displayed her favourite duelling rapier to them " – is a deadly weapon. While the practice swords that you will be using in this class have no edge and a rubber-tipped point, they can still cause injuries. With that in mind – and I'm going to tell you this once – anyone who threatens someone else with a sword will instantly be dismissed from this class and will not be returning, and will receive a failing mark. I've heard some stories about fisticuffs and hexing in the hallways of this school, and that will not happen in this class. If I see anyone getting needlessly aggressive here, good old Professor Snape is going to seem infinitely reasonable and forgiving by comparison. Does everyone understand me?"

There was a quiet chorus of, "Yes, Professor."

"Good. Now the stern safety lecture is out of the way – " she grinned hugely at them, as if it were Christmas morning, and she had just awakened to a giant stack of presents " – here comes the fun bit. Everyone grab a sword, and fall back into line. Make sure you carry them points down!"

She took that class period to teach them how to hold a sword, and to teach them the concepts behind attack and defence – thrust, lunge, beat, parry, riposte, feint, counter-parry, counter-riposte, disarm.

"So what makes a sword a deadly weapon?" Draco Malfoy asked, as they finished putting their gear away in preparation to go in for lunch. "Does that mean that people kill each other with swords still, then?"

"Certainly, Mr. Malfoy. Believe me, people can and do still dispatch each other quite efficiently with swords."

Draco smiled, his grey eyes glinting anarchistically – and again she was struck by his resemblance to his father. "Have you ever killed someone, then?"

She paused, looking at him with such seriousness that even he lost some of his punkish excitement and looked slightly abashed. "All I have to say on that subject is this – while it's peacetime at home now, it has not always been so during my lifetime.

"Now all of you go get your lunches. I'll see you next week."

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"Oh my, look at you. You've stepped off a Pre-Raphaelite's canvas today," Professor Flitwick said when she arrived at lunch. Even at one hundred twenty-three, Filius Flitwick was still a great gallant and never lost an opportunity to compliment a woman. As usual, the only seat left was to the immediate left of Professor Snape.

"Thank you, Professor. Though I think you'll find the Pre-Raphaelites left out the unflattering sweat and mud, like all great artists. Could someone please pass that pitcher of water? Thanks so much."

"I'm so pleased that women allow themselves to sweat these days," Minerva McGonagall observed, passing the ice water down the table. "When I was your age, we had to be content to 'glow' when we became exerted."

"Glowing like a plough horse down here, I'm afraid – I gave my fourth-years their first lessons with actual swords today, and they kept me running round and round. I'll go right out and do the same with my fifth-years after lunch – but I promise I'll look a bit less warlike at dinner."

"I've seen something similar in a Burne-Jones painting," came Professor Snape's voice.

She turned to him in surprise. "Yes, exactly... Edward Burne-Jones. He was at Court in the mid-1800s... we're still producing things from his designs."

Professor Flitwick had left his seat and come down the high table to get a closer look at her chain shirt. "Do pardon my curiosity, Professor, I've never seen real Faery mail before. My, my, that's lovely. So cunningly made – the plates overlap like feathers. And the chain links! I've seen jeweller's work less fine. How it does shine!"

"You should see after it's properly polished up for official occasions. When a lot of us get together for parades and the like, I'm told we're absolutely blinding."

"The Shining Host, indeed," Flitwick said. "However does one produce steel of this lustre? Is there silver in the composition?"

"Actually, we don't produce steel, I'm afraid. We call this metal mithreal, but you would call it a titanium alloy."

"Ah, I see. An alloy of titanium and what? Or are you allowed to say?" Professor Flitwick asked.

"Well, I don't rightly know, actually – that's a big secret. All I know is that it stops all pierce attacks, and I'm pathetically grateful for that."

"Hear, hear," Dumbledore said, raising his glass of pumpkin juice.

"Hear, hear indeed. Wonderfully convenient, that," Professor Flitwick said, giving her arm a little squeeze of thanks and traipsing back to his seat.

Snape's voice came again from her right. "If you have armour that stops all pierce attacks, how do your opponents manage to fight you, then?"

She thought there was another noticeable lull in the conversation.

"Well, Professor... while we can produce impenetrable armour, we can't produce armour that completely dissipates force. So... the Orcs primarily use blunt-force bash attacks against us. Great heavy maces and morning stars, that sort of thing," she said. "But do let's talk about something else before everyone loses their appetites, shall we?"

Professor McGonagall turned to her in alarm. "How do you defend yourself against such weapons?"

"I always find that getting the bloody hell out of their way is wonderfully effective, myself," she said emphatically. "Do excuse my language, but this is one of those topics I feel somewhat strongly about... " Some of the other professors laughed; it had the desired effect of breaking the tension created by Snape's question.

"Ah yes – dodging. A most useful skill indeed," Professor Flitwick said merrily.

"And a skill that we will be covering most extensively in my fencing class, I assure you all," she said brightly, making the others chuckle again.

There were no more uncomfortable questions from her right, but she thought Professor Snape's eyes lingered for quite a long time on the side of her face. She would not, however, turn to meet them.

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Monday of the next week, she received another unexpected piece of mail. Owl post arrived at breakfast, as usual – Emily looked up in surprise to see a great eagle owl drop two green envelopes – one toward her, one toward someone else at the table.

She turned the envelope over in her hand – it was of heavy, finest quality parchment, embossed with the Malfoy family coat of arms and an address:

Malfoy

Malfeasant

Londinium

Britannia

She glanced up from her invitation to see a second, identical green envelope in the hands of Severus Snape.

"What on Earth is a Malfeasant?"

"The name of their manor," he said, still stiff, but affecting some semblance of civility in front of the other professors. "The Malfoys haven't changed their return address since William the Conqueror was here." He slit his envelope open with a clean butter knife and drew out a black parchment card, embossed in silver.

"Oh. An invitation to their All Hallows Eve Ball. Perhaps I'll bother to go this year." He dropped it desultorily beside his plate and went back to his eggs.

"How lovely... let me see – the Masquerade Ball is Saturday night, tea on Saturday afternoon, hunt on Sunday afternoon...oh, but they're having it the weekend after Hallowe'en proper. Must be because Draco and everyone will want to stay at school and see whose name comes out of the Goblet that weekend. Have you any idea who the favourite is today?"

"No," Snape replied, with a caustic little smile. "Yes, I think perhaps I will go to the Malfoys' – solely because I'll get to talk about something other than the Tournament there."

Oh, was she to infer that she was boring him, then? She continued to chatter merrily on at him, making him raise an eyebrow in irritation. "I've got something called the Green Room, and apparently my ladies' maid is named Cecile. Do let's hear what your ladies' maid's name is, shall we? Or have they given you a valet instead?"

"I'm afraid I don't rate a valet, and never have."

"Oh." She decided to change the subject. "A real country weekend party, then. I didn't know anyone still had them. This will probably require an entire trunkful of costume changes. No idea what I am going to find to wear." She dropped the invitation next to her plate.

"Here's an idea – try the black frock," Snape said dryly, taking a sip of tea.

She glanced at him, dressed in black from head to toe, and sniffed derisively.

"As the pot said to the kettle."

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There were no more uncomfortable conversations about what pots said to kettles as October drew to a close. The Monday before Samhain – no, here it was called Hallowe'en – a notice appeared in the entrance hall announcing the arrival of the Beauxbatons and Durmstrang delegations that Friday, October 30th, at six p.m. Everything in the castle seemed to be getting cleaned within an inch of its life; she heard Alberic, the Ravenclaw Professors' Tower guardian painting, complaining of detergent hands by Wednesday.

Argus Filch seemed on a rampage of sorts – on more than one occasion she Obscured herself and hid to escape his notice, as the closer the arrival date got, the less he seemed to be able to distinguish between teachers and students in his scoldings. All the Heads of House seemed terribly tense, so much so that Emily asked all of them if there was any small task she could take on for them to make that week easier. Professors Flitwick and McGonagall had both gratefully given her piles of essays to mark, and she had taken Thursday evening to help Professor Sprout catch and subdue a shipment of Bouncing Bulbs in preparation for that good lady's lesson on Monday. Kind grey-haired Professor Sprout had been so glad of the help that she had loaded Emily down with jars of her spearmint tea. Professor Snape had (of course) icily declined. But then, she had only offered at all in order to not to give him the luxury of being irritated that he had been the only one not asked.

By Friday at 6:00 p.m., with a not-inconsiderable amount of professorial tension, and a tremendous amount of hasty spit 'n polishing later, the entire staff and student body of Hogwarts had assembled in front of the castle to greet the delegations from Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. Emily had fallen in with Professors Vector and Sinistra, Madam Hooch, and Madam Pince in the back row on the steps, and was feeling rather guiltily glad that she wasn't a Head of House as she watched Professors Flitwick, McGonagall, Sprout, and Snape making their students line up in an orderly fashion. The students were so excited they were wiggling – especially the younger Creevey boy. The Professors were nearly as wound up as the students – little Professor Flitwick was practically dancing on his perch on a stone bench.

By Friday at 6:01 p.m., however, Emily was ready to turn around, go back inside, and take a hot bath. In the sunny climes of her home, the idea that she was moving to a place where the depth of snow was measured in feet had been as far beyond her imagination as Dante's Lake of Ice from the Inferno, and if one can't even imagine the Ninth Circle of Hell, it is nearly impossible to dress properly for it. She had made good on her resolution to get warmer clothes, and bought a heavy cashmere outer robe and cloak at Gladrags, but even that wasn't really warm enough; small diabolical breezes and puffs of arctic air were still finding their way next to her skin. She wrapped her arms around herself and searched the horizon and skies, hoping that the two delegations would not be late.

From somewhere to her left, she heard the Headmaster's voice say "Calidus" and suddenly her new cloak was suffused with warmth.

"Thank you," she called to him. She was really going to have to persuade someone to teach her that spell.

"Certainly, Professor. Aha!" Dumbledore was suddenly distracted by something in the sky. "Unless I am very much mistaken, the delegation from Beauxbatons approaches!"

Beauxbatons was first then – she turned in the direction in which everyone else was pointing – oh, yes, there was the blue Beauxbatons carriage. It looked as though they had retired the old brougham in favour of a more commodious model, but it was still drawn by the usual winged palominos the size of elephants. The carriage landed with a great THUMP – she well remembered how many industrial-strength Cushioning and Shock-Absorbing Charms had to be cast on Beauxbatons carriages so the passengers could fly in them without their teeth being shaken loose. Everyone looked on with interest as a male student in blue robes handed down a stately, tremendously tall, black-haired woman from the interior. Emily smiled broadly to see her former Charms professor – Madame Maxime had finally been made Headmistress after Madame St. Germaine retired. She recalled something about it in the alumni magazine, but that had been over six years ago. The student robes were still that fine blue silk – but rather thin for the weather, evidently, as all the students were shivering. Poor dears. She knew exactly how they felt.

Her attention was then caught by a shout from the Gryffindors close to the lake – and the Durmstrang ship rose from its depths. The ship was a picturesque wreck of a thing, sailing in out of the fog on the still black lake like a ghost ship out of legend. Soon the Durmstrang Institute group of seventh-years were disembarking. They were almost all tall and dark, unless they were tall, square-jawed, and dazzlingly fair, with a Eastern European look to their faces, wearing dark red robes with what looked like dark brown bearskin cloaks. The effect was quite impressive – like a group of young Russian nobility, rulers of the vast snowy steppes. Their Headmaster was silver all over – short silver-white hair and beard, silver fox cloak – with an oily, mellifluous voice.

After greeting the newcomers, everyone filed into the Great Hall for the welcome feast – first students, then professors and school Heads. Emily greeted her former Professor Olympe Maxime at the doorway to the Hall – "Bienvenue, Madame Maxime!" "Why, it is mon petite Emelie Swayin!" – as they filed toward the front of the Hall. The Beauxbatons students all stood until their Headmistress was seated, of course – Emily was pleased to note that they still taught Continental manners at her alma mater. Madame Maxime took a seat on Dumbledore's left, after promising to have a chat with her later. And there were oeufs de caviare and bouillabaisse on the table. Too bad they couldn't have some Veuve Cliquot in front of the students. There were, she noticed, two empty places remaining at the High Table. She wondered briefly as to who was expected to arrive for the feast.

As the dinner platters were being cleared away and the dessert course was being served, two new guests arrived at the High Table. One was a chubby, jovial-looking sort Emily didn't know.

Bartemious Crouch, however, she had met.

The Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation made his entrance and took the empty seat beside Madame Maxime. He looked the same as she remembered him, his dark hair slicked down so hard that it looked like patent leather, and his small moustache barbered so severely that it looked mathematically correct. She had made his acquaintance while she was being issued her work papers at the Ministry, just before she had headed for King's Cross – and (after a memorable delay) Hogwarts. Bartemious Crouch was probably the closest thing she had to any sort of representation within the Ministry of Magic – there had never been a Department of Interdimensional Magical Cooperation. Technically, she was at Hogwarts under his permission, although she doubted that he had more say over her situation than Albus Dumbledore.

After dessert, Dumbledore officially opened the Triwizard Tournament.

He first introduced the Tournament organizers – Bartemious Crouch and the chubby wizard, one Ludo Bagman, the Head of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry – then explained that they, with the other two school heads, would be joining him on the panel of judges. Then Argus Filch set an ancient wooden casket covered with jewels in front of Dumbledore as the Headmaster told the students that three champions, one from each school, would compete in three tasks. The students were enthralled. Then Dumbledore tapped the lid of the casket thrice and drew out the fabled magical talisman she had only heard tell of from her father's stories about his exotic homeland – the Goblet of Fire.

It was one thing to hear stories of a magical talisman – it was quite another to see it for oneself. Silvery-blue flames licked within its crudely fashioned wooden bowl as Dumbledore set it atop the wooden casket. It burned brightly, casting everything else in the Great Hall quite into the shade. Lastly, he explained the age requirement, and the means of entering – each student would enter by dropping a slip bearing his or her name into the Goblet, which would then select the three champions through its own impartial criteria. Any entries were a binding magical contract, he explained – to enter was to participate, if a student was selected school champion. The names of the three champions would be announced the following night, Hallowe'en.

The students filed from the hall toward their dormitories, whispering very excitedly amongst themselves; and once they had left, Dumbledore invited both Ministry officials, both Heads of House, and all the staff members back into the staff room for some brandy and chat. Karkaroff declined, preferring to head back to the Durmstrang ship with his students, but Madame Maxime, both Bagman and Crouch, and most of the teachers accepted. While Dumbledore shared glasses of his Faery calvados around, Emily had an animated chat with the Beauxbatons headmistress, thanking the Mother that her French was still up to the task.

She heard all about the student Madame believed would be selected as school champion – a talented seventh-year named Fleur Delacour. Madame could not stop singing Fleur's praises, remarking on her leadership qualities, her intelligence, and her devotion to her family. "And she is a veela's granddaughter, you know," she said confidentially. Emily smiled – Madame, for some private reasons of her own, always seemed especially inclined to mentor the part-human students of Beauxbatons. She herself had had many occasions to feel grateful for Madame's special attentions, when she had arrived at school as a naïve eleven-year-old who had ever only seen Arcadia and the Muggle countryside. Too soon, though, Madame wished everyone a Bonne Nuit and went back to the Beauxbatons carriage to tend to her students, and Emily found herself turning to face Bartemious Crouch.

"Good evening, Mr. Crouch," she said politely.

"Good evening, Commander Tumnus." He called her by her military rank and her former surname – not strictly proper under the circumstances, but she didn't want to alienate the man by correcting him. Just beyond Crouch, she peripherally saw Professor Snape turn in her direction when Crouch addressed her.

"And how are your classes progressing here at Hogwarts?"

"Just splendidly, thanks. Some of my students have actually already created functional Mots de Puissance, and I think they're really enjoying the fencing classes."

"And no one has been injured in the fencing classes?" He completely ignored the triumph of discovering human students who were prodigiously talented in Faery magic, and went right to the potential problems.

"Not other than the usual small bruises and sore muscles, but that's to be expected. As you know, Madam Pomfrey can heal those in seconds," she said with a reassuring smile.

"And you have reviewed the documents I gave you?"

"Yes, I have, sir." Her smile faltered for a second. "I found the opportunity to refresh my knowledge of legal history very interesting. Thank you."

"And may we review the notable legal decisions mentioned in those documents, if I may ask you to recall them, Commander?"

She was taken aback by the question. "Sir. While I appreciate the chance for review, I was already aware that most historical sources agree that the Magna Carta outlawed trial by combat for both the Muggle and Wizarding communities of Britain. I had also heard that duelling, whether with the rapier or the pistol, was made illegal by an act of Parliament in the 1840s."

"I thought some of the differences between Arcadia's laws and those of the Wizarding community should be... emphasized... to you, Commander. We are relying on you to teach our children, after all, and children are easily led astray," he said, unexpectedly harshly. To her left, she saw Professor Moody's attention turn in her direction as well. Severus Snape was leaning on the arm of a chair with a brandy glass in his hand, looking absolutely riveted.

"Mr. Crouch. If the first binding document I signed, promising that I will abide by all the laws of the United Kingdom and of the Ministry of Magic whilst residing on British soil, was not far-reaching enough to suit you, I will be happy to sign another that is, sir," she said very neutrally.

"Just so long as you keep that in mind," Crouch said, his face unreadable.

She looked at him with some shock. "Am I being reprimanded for something... sir?" she asked in an undertone. "I was not aware that you thought my conduct here had been in any way unbecoming... " Then she met Professor Snape's eyes across Crouch and glanced quickly away.

"Is there a problem, Crouch? I hope our fencing mistress isn't in any trouble." She felt Professor Moody's rough hand descend warmly onto her shoulder and felt a rush of gratitude.

"No, Moody. No trouble at all," Crouch replied, though he gave her a severe sidelong look before starting to talk to some of the other professors about Age Lines and ways to keep students from defeating them through the use of Aging Potions and their ilk. As Crouch moved off, Emily watched his retreating back with no small amount of apprehension – if he chose to make her life hard, he was in an excellent position to do so.

Her eyes fell on a dark figure nearby – Professor Snape was still looking at her. His black eyes were slightly narrowed in concentration as he studied her face – and somehow that was worse than not quite being reprimanded by Bartemious Crouch. She turned away from him with a faint scowl, and joined Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick's conversation about the gory deaths of former Triwizard Tournament competitors some years hence.

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It was very late when Emily finally returned to her own apartments that evening, to discover that despite the blazes roaring in both her hearths, the room was still so cold that she kept her heavy cloak on over her nightdress. She pulled a copy of Anna Karenina from the shelf for some bedtime reading – the great Russian epics always occupied her mind so completely that there was no room for worry or doubt while she read them.

Tolstoy's descriptions set her to remembering the Durmstrang students – and their furry cloaks. That gave her an idea – pulling out her biggest trunk (the vintage steamer that her grandmother had taken on her transatlantic crossings on the Mauritania) she rummaged about until she found, tucked away underneath a pile of her grandfather's old bespoke satin dressing gowns, two pelts of weir panther hide. The dense fur was a deep blue-black, but for a misting of silver guard hairs. Each pelt was some yards wide – the big cats had been taller than the tallest Faerie when they stood up on their hind legs and brought their slashing front paws down to attack. Against such predators, even she and Dorien had been pushed nearly beyond their abilities.

She threw both pelts on her bed, over the blue velvet duvet, and threaded her fingers through the soft fur. Here in Scotland, the only time she ever felt really warm was either in a hot bath or when she was between the featherbed and the deep eiderdown comforter, but at home in Arcadia, the weather was such that fur was something one slept on top of, with a light coverlet. It must have been years since she had lain on these pelts... camped out of doors in that great silk-draped pavilion Gwydion had put up before Beltane. She had been curled against Dorien's side with his shoulder under her head, both wrapped in light velvet coverlets.

Which was the female skin... there was the hole that Dorien's first arrow had made, in the crease where chest met her right foreleg. And here was the long slash where her sword had severed the beast's jugular and spinal cord, killing her before she hit the ground. Well fought, my lady panther, she thought with grudging admiration and hoped that there was a tailor somewhere in Diagon Alley who could manage to work on fur with the usual Tailoring Charms.

There was, she knew, no leftover trace of Dorien's odour on this fur any longer... afterward, she had lain on them every night, breathing the scent of his body, until she could smell no one's scent in them except her own.

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The entire school was up early for breakfast the next day.

It wasn't her accustomed feast of Samhain, but it was still festive. The Great Hall had been decorated for the Second World holiday of Hallowe'en – she was wandering from place to place in the hall with a cup of raspberry tea in her hand, looking at the banks of carved jack o' lanterns and live bats flittering about in clouds, chittering and diving. Students were wandering in and out of the Hall and around the Goblet of Fire, bits of breakfast and cups of tea in their hands. Now and then a Hogwarts student would drop a slip of paper into the Goblet, and clapping and cheers would rise from the students clustered nearby.

Angelina Johnson, a tall pretty Gryffindor, the most talented student from one of Emily's Friday fencing class sessions, received a loud round of applause when she entered a slip of parchment, early that morning. Emily joined in the applause and clapped her on the back as she passed into the Great Hall.

"Good luck, Miss Johnson."

"Thanks, Professor."

She also applauded Fawcett and Davies, two Ravenclaw seventh-years, as they added their names to the Goblet. Shortly afterward, Madame Maxime appeared with her small contingent of Beauxbatons students. She was walking beside the favourite Fleur Delacour, who, Emily noticed, definitely had the marks of her veela blood – fair hair, blue eyes, lithe physical presence, feverishly extreme aura of oestrogen production. The hormonal haze surrounding the girl was obviously having its effect on the boys in the foyer – Ron Weasley, and to a lesser extent Harry Potter, seemed ready to faint as she passed them. The French students entered their names ceremoniously, then headed back out toward the powder-blue carriage outside on the Hogwarts green.

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There was a palpable aura of mad excitement at dinner the night of Hallowe'en feast.

The food was again marvellous – there were escargots in garlic butter, beefsteak au poivre, and thick fish steaks of breathlessly fresh Russian sturgeon – but the students were so eager to find out who the school champions were going to be that there was barely time to enjoy dinner. The entire room fell dead silent as Albus Dumbledore finished his meal and got to his feet. With one sweep of his wand, he plunged the hall into a state of dramatic semi-darkness.

"When the champions' names are called, I would ask them please to come up to the top of the Hall and go through into the next chamber, where they will be receiving their first instructions."

The blue-white flames of the Goblet of Fire were so incandescently bright that Emily was nearly blinded by them. She leaned back in her seat, surveying the dark forms of the students before her. Who would be chosen? Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Slytherin, Ravenclaw?

A tendril of red flame lobbed a piece of charred parchment into Dumbledore's hands.

"The champion for Durmstrang," Dumbledore read in his strong tenor, "will be Viktor Krum." Loud cheers and applause filled the hall as the Durmstrang champion approached the front of the hall. Of all the Durmstrang students, Emily thought Viktor Krum was one of the least impressive: sullen, physically ungainly and slouching; but she applauded him enthusiastically as he approached the front of the hall. But the Goblet had turned red again.

"The champion for Beauxbatons," Dumbledore read, "will be Fleur Delacour." Ah – it was Madame Maxime's favourite, the veela part-human, Emily observed with satisfaction. If Viktor Krum had been something of a disappointment, Fleur Delacour rose elegantly to the occasion. She threw back her silver-gold hair, and swept to the front of the room with all appropriate dignity. Emily heard some of the other Beauxbatons girls collapse into theatrical tears as Fleur approached the front of the room. Really – she would have thought that they would show a bit more Gallic dignity. Emily herself was definitely supporting Hogwarts, as was only right and proper, but nonetheless, if a part-human champion won, she would still take more than a little satisfaction in such a victory.

The Goblet had turned red again, and another tendril of red flame delivered a third scrap of parchment to Dumbledore's hand.

"The champion for Hogwarts," he read, "will be Cedric Diggory."

And the Hufflepuff table went perfectly delirious. Every single member of Hufflepuff House leapt to his or her feet, cheering and clapping, including Professor Sprout. Emily applauded enthusiastically as well. Diggory, a tall handsome youth with chiselled features, jumped to his feet, shaking hands with his closest neighbours, with a truly charming smile of delight on his face.

Dumbledore shook Diggory's hand and clapped him jovially on the shoulder as he passed. "Excellent! Well, now we have our three champions... "

Dumbledore was continuing to speak, but Emily was not paying attention.

Behind the Headmaster, the Goblet continued to burn against the darkness of the hall. Impossibly, though, the flames turned coruscatingly red again, and a fourth vermilion tendril of fire rose from the Goblet's bowl, raising a fourth slip of parchment.

Emily gasped. This was impossible. The three champions had been chosen. Dumbledore reached automatically to catch the fourth slip, looking as perplexed as everyone else in the Great Hall. She thought he stared at the slip in his hand for a long time.

Then everyone in the hall heard the Headmaster's incredulous voice say: "Harry Potter."

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"But that's impossible," Emily said to no one in particular, rising to her feet. "Cedric is the Hogwarts champion. How could Harry be chosen as well... ?"

She turned in the direction of the Gryffindor table. Harry Potter looked as shocked and surprised as it was possible for anyone to look.

Professor McGonagall had gotten up and was hissing ferociously in Dumbledore's ear. Dumbledore called Harry to the front of the Hall, and he disappeared behind the doors where Cedric Diggory had most recently vanished.

"Well, well. Mr. Potter bends the rules yet again," said a soft voice behind her. A moment later, Professor Snape and Minerva McGonagall stood up and walked quickly toward the doorway through which Harry had just disappeared. Mad-Eye Moody followed a few minutes later. Most of the other teachers looked at each other in helpless shock.

Emily's attention was caught by an outburst between two of the students' tables – evidently someone at the Gryffindor table had gotten into a verbal altercation with someone at the Hufflepuff table. Hermione Granger and the four Weasleys, Ron, Ginny, Fred and George, were furiously arguing with a clump of indignant Hufflepuffs. Emily sprang up from her seat and hurried toward the fray. It looked like nothing but harsh language so far – but she knew that with teenagers it could be only a matter of seconds before matters escalated to blows, hexes and jinxes.

"Stebbins! Finch-Fletchley! Summers! McMillan! Granger! Weasleys! All of you stop it and sit down this instant!" she ordered, sounding more like a Fury than a Faerie. "So much for international relations if we can't even keep from squabbling amongst ourselves, honestly! And if you whip that out, sir, you'll finish the year with a nice pair of ass's ears, I promise you." This last was directed at Justin Finch-Fletchley, whose hand had gone to the hilt of his wand. Ever since he had been Petrified in his second year, Justin had been somewhat irrationally sensitive to anything he perceived as a threat. The Hufflepuffs subsided into a tight little knot, pulling their shoulders together and throwing resentful looks at the Gryffindor table.

Hermione Granger was still so angry she was almost crying. "They said Harry cheated to get his name into the Goblet. Harry didn't do anything of the sort, Professor," Hermione declared passionately, her face flushing. "He wouldn't – he can't have. He's an honourable person – really. He's the best friend I've ever had – I don't believe this of him for a second."

Beside Hermione, as she declared Harry Potter to be the best friend she had ever had, Emily suddenly detected an acrid tang of truly potent agitation from Ron Weasley. Oh, by the Mother – surely they were too young to feel sexual jealousy yet.

"You just don't know him yet." Hermione looked to Ron for support. "Harry didn't do it, did he, Ron? Tell her."

Ron said nothing. He looked at Hermione, then at the door to the anteroom, where Harry had recently disappeared, then down at his hands.

"Ron!" Hermione cried. "Didn't you see the way he looked when they called his name? He was surprised as anything!"

"He said he might try to put his name in the Goblet anyway," Ron said finally. "We talked about trying to get past the Age Line."

"I can't believe that you... you of all... Ron!" This defection was more than Hermione could take – her face turned bright pink, and the tears began flowing in good earnest. Ron looked extremely uncomfortable. Emily put her arm around the girl's shoulders and led her a short ways away from the other Gryffindors, then handed her her own handkerchief.

"Thanks," Hermione said, dabbing at her face. "Can you believe that Ron Weasley? How can he not defend Harry – we've all been best friends since first year – you wouldn't believe me if I told you everything we've run into together. After our first year, and second year, and then third year, what with Buckbeak and the Dementors and everything, then this happens to poor Harry and... we've always taken each other's side, we've always stood up for each other, ever since Quirrell let that troll in and... I can't believe Ron! That Ronald Weasley is just... " This brought a fresh flood of tears. Emily comfortingly patted her shoulder.

"Hermione... but you believe he didn't cheat, don't you?"

"I know he didn't," Hermione said stalwartly. "It's got to be someone trying to get him again, someone trying to kill him again. It's just got to be. I know it."

"Why would someone at Hogwarts try to kill Harry?" Emily asked blankly. "Harry's a national hero – he's already in the history books – "

"Oh, Professor. You really aren't from here, are you?" Hermione looked up at Emily like the veteran of a thousand wars. "Someone's always trying to kill Harry. Someone tried first year and second year. And we thought someone was trying third year, but that's a really long story."

Worrying as this news was, Emily thought the young lady before her needed some serious reassurance first. "Hermione, if anyone is stupid enough to try to kill Harry Potter while he's at Hogwarts – they'll have to get past Albus Dumbledore first. And for what it's worth, I'll make certain that no one kills him on my watch either."

"Thanks," Hermione said, with a big sniffle. "What do you think will happen to Harry?"

"Well, you heard what Dumbledore said about an entry being a binding magical contract... my guess is that Harry will probably end up competing in the tournament. I just don't see any way around it."

Professors Sprout and Flitwick had been quietly conferring between themselves; they decided at that moment to send all the students back to their dormitories with their prefects. There were small outbreaks of arguing and name-calling between the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors as they trooped towards the doors. This was highly unusual, as most of the time it seemed that the Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors got along without much conflict.

Professor Sprout called across the Hall in a harassed voice – "Professor Swain, might you – "

"Right there, Professor." She excused herself from Hermione with another comforting little pat, then moved between the two groups, separating groups of small hostile mortals from each other. "Knock it off, you lot, right now. The purpose of this whole tournament is to foster international relations, not tweak national ones – I'd thank you all to remember that. Fred Weasley – put that thing away before I make you eat it. I'm not joking!"

Fred had been stealthily trying to slip a small missile – a Dungbomb by the look of it – down the back of Justin Finch-Fletchley's robes.

"Yeah, Fred, knock it off," George Weasley said. "Though with his breath being what it is, that might be an improvement, Professor."

"Just brilliant – now we've got inter-familial relations getting tweaked too," she said.

As she herded the squabbling Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs up the stairs toward their dormitories, she found herself wishing that whomever had thought of such a thing as a Triwizard Tournament in the first place would find themselves meeting a violent, painful, prolonged, torturous, and otherwise thoroughly unpleasant death.

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In the week following the selection of the Tournament champions, it seemed that the primary focus of Emily's classes had shifted from teaching them anything to refereeing spats between the Gryffindors and the Hufflepuffs, and the Gryffindors and the Slytherins. By Thursday she had gotten so fed up with Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle taunting Harry Potter and the other Gryffindors that she had made them run five times around the Quidditch pitch as detention – the first detention she had given since she started teaching at Hogwarts. She suspected that Draco Malfoy was equally at fault as a troublemaker elsewhere, but for some reason, he kept to a fairly polite demeanour in her classes, especially the fencing class. Perhaps Lucius had told him to mind his manners in her class? At any rate, she was glad of it – from what she heard in the teacher's lounge, the boy had a diabolical reputation in some of her colleagues' classes, and she hated the idea of being put in the position of having to discipline Lucius's son.

The weeks until the Malfoy Hallowe'en party had first seemed endless to her, until what with one thing and another, Emily suddenly found that Friday night of November 6th had crept up on her, and she had still not packed. She finally took down her Holding Trunk that evening (her order having been delivered far too late to do any good during her move to Hogwarts, of course) and set it on the rug in front of her fire. The trunk's lid opened to reveal a trap door just beneath – which led down a narrow spiral staircase into a well-appointed walk-in closet, dressing chamber, and armoury. The Taerdis Co. craftswizards had gotten her specifications right – the walls were covered with the pale green silk and the chaise upholstered in the deep green silk velvet she had chosen from the swatch books. The chaise was practically the size of her bed – in a pinch, if she had gotten stranded somewhere, she could have crawled into her trunk and quite comfortably slept in it.

It had been expensive, but she could have packed it with everything she had brought to Hogwarts and then stowed it in the overhead compartment of a Muggle airplane. Being a witch certainly did have its comforts... but while Muggles couldn't put a room into a small suitcase, sometimes she would have preferred firing off an email than always having to tie a paper to some hired owl's leg. Now, what did one wear to 'Saturday afternoon tea' hosted by Narcissa Malfoy?

Well, it would be early November. The new cloak lined with weir panther fur, that was definitely going with her. With the persistent snow lately, she had been wearing it all day, every day. Some sort of costume was also definitely in order, but what did she, of all people, wear to a masquerade? Muggles regularly went to masquerades in the garb of one or the other of the roles she had learned or been born to – Faerie, witch. What on Earth was exotic enough for a Wizarding family's costume ball... ? She considered for a moment, tossing robes and frocks this way and that, and realized she had something that might do.

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Saturday morning dawned bright, clear, and even more bitingly cold than the day before. The stone walls of her bathroom were so chilly that she didn't even untie her robe until she had conjured a roaring fire on the hearth and filled the tub with steaming water. She had wrapped herself in her cloak before she had even had a chance to dry her hair. At breakfast in the Great Hall, she heaped her plate with warming foods – eggs, baked apples with hot cream – and drank a pot of orange allspice tea. (There were always pots of unsweetened herb tea on the High Table – no doubt the result of Albus Dumbledore's infinite kindness and consideration.)

"Professor Swain?"

She turned toward the sound of Severus Snape's voice in surprise – on weekends, he rarely appeared for breakfast, or for any meal, for that matter. He was standing behind her chair, dressed in travelling robes, and sipping from a mug of black coffee.

The coffee was an unfortunate choice – as the coffee bean was unknown in Arcadia, and the Fae did not import coffee, Emily appreciated it about as much as a Spanish Conquistador would have appreciated a cup of bitter unsweetened Aztec coca. The oily, burnt smell of it filled her nostrils unpleasantly. She covered her mouth and nose with a napkin and exhaled hard.

"Yes, Professor Snape." She was desperately trying not to wrinkle her nose in distaste.

"Might I inquire as to how you plan to travel to the Malfoys' this afternoon?"

"I was planning to Apparate, now that I've had the chance to renew my licence. Yourself?"

"Unfortunately my Apparition licence expired this summer and I've not had a chance to renew it what with all the... " he gestured in the vague direction of the students eating breakfast in front of them – "distractions going on this term."

"I understand, sir," she said mildly.

"At any rate, Lucius sent me a Portkey by owl post, and I was wondering if perhaps you would like to share it, seeing as how we are both leaving from the same point and arriving at the same point."

"Oh. That does indeed seem like a good idea, sir," she said.

She had wondered – actually, hoped – that perhaps he would find some excuse during this weekend to smooth over the personality conflict that seemed to have sprung up between them at the beginning of term. Seeing as how Lucius had not sent her a Portkey, this was actually a rather thoughtful gesture on his part.

"All right then. I was planning to leave by one o'clock – prompt – and I expect that you will have taken the time out of your busy schedule to also be ready by that hour?"

Her mouth twitched. His offer had impressed her as considerate up until that moment, when he assumed that he had to lay down the law about what time they should leave. As if she couldn't possibly be expected to be punctual without being nagged. Oh, yes. Because the stereotype said the Fae were always late, you see.

"Come to think of it, though – I think I might go ahead and take my chances with Apparition, sir," she replied. "I dislike Portkeys – they leave me with an uncomfortable sense of vertigo for some odd reason."

"Of course," Snape replied smoothly. "Mind that you dress for a bit of a hike then – Malfeasant has more wards in place against Apparition than Hogwarts itself. You may not be able to approach as closely as you might like."

"Thank you for your advice, sir."

"I've also heard they've had half a metre of snow fall recently in the vicinity of Malfeasant, but certainly a relatively long walk in that will be nothing compared to the agony that is... an uncomfortable sense of vertigo."

"I shall definitely take that into consideration."

"Well, good morning, then, Professor," he said curtly, and moved off without another word.

"Good morning, sir."

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Emily was ready to go by one o'clock – actually, she was ready to go an hour before one o'clock. Nonetheless, she refused to go in search of Professor Snape and accept his offer. It was now a matter of pride.

She waited until one-ten or so, then walked down toward Hogsmeade with her new trunk in hand, and Apparated once she passed the gate that marked the end of the Hogwarts anti-Apparition wards, appearing as close as she could to Malfeasant.

Which, as it turned out, meant that she found herself materializing about quarter of a mile away from anything. The only building in sight looked about the size of a large doll's house.

Well, not thorough about security one bit, were they.

And it was still bloody cold.

Now, matter of pride or no, she felt extremely foolish for not having travelled with Professor Snape.

She pulled up the hood of her cloak and wrapped her scarf more closely around her throat. The black gloves Lucius had sent her seemed to sense the temperature and turn up their gentle heat – the rest of her might have been chilly, but her hands weren't even stiff. She rubbed them over her face, ears, and upper arms appreciatively. No doubt about it – she really had to thank Lucius in person for them. He had really been tremendously thoughtful in his choice of unbirthday presents. With that thought, she gamely set off across the white field toward the house.

As she drew closer, Malfeasant grew from the size of a doll's house into a Tudor hunting lodge – really a small castle – set on endless acres of rolling green field and forest. Or what would have been acres of green field and forest, had the entire area not been carpeted in some inches of snow and ice. The castle itself was a majestic edifice of greenish-grey stone, with endless towers and spires, and countless diamond-paned windows set in carved, recessed gothic arches.

She noticed, as she approached the threshold, that a massive portcullis had been locked in its upright position just above the entrance to a great stone courtyard that led from the lawn to the front entrance.

A great portcullis – which meant probably some tonnage – of iron.

Snowy, cold... iron.

She could feel it from a few steps away – and quickened her steps to a fast run, glancing up in fear and apprehension, as she passed under it. She hoped that it was kept in good working order – she would hate to be trapped behind that.

The front door was of some nearly black wood, bolted and bound with long, heavy spears of metal ending in ornamental fleur-de-lis. The great door handle and lock were made of the same metal, which she recognized as... more iron. She hung back on the stone front steps, looking around for anyone else, someone human, who could open the door, and that she could follow inside.

Bloody hell – now she could have kicked herself for not having travelled with Professor Snape.

There was, she also noticed, no doorbell, but there was a massive door knocker, also forged from (of course) more iron. She felt a momentary surge of panic, feeling trapped between the iron door handle and the menacing iron portcullis.

"Good afternoon, Miss," said a businesslike voice from somewhere behind her, and from somewhere rather lower than she would have expected. A stocky goblin dressed in black and silver livery and a heavy woollen over-robe, had appeared at her side. "Invitation, please."

She handed it over, and he scrutinised it, then handed it back with a crisp little flourish. "Thank you, Professor Emily Swain. The master and mistress are expecting you."

He opened the door, to her immense relief, and handed her in with a deep bow.

The foyer was dark and somewhat gloomy, lit only with torches and weak, grey sunlight from the narrow, arched windows. Immediately, however, two house-elves were at her side, attired in what must have been their formal servant's garb – black towels with a silver embroidered "M" monogram.

"May I take your things, Miss?" squeaked the first elf. He took her trunk and wraps with a polite little bow, then briefly conferred with the butler-goblin in a muted squeak of a voice, and vanished in a puff of grey smoke. The second elf made a low bow and squeaked, "This way, please, Miss," in a tremulous voice so high it made her ears ring slightly. They worked so fast and efficiently that only a minute or two passed before she was escorted into Malfeasant's reception hall.

The reception hall was built on the grand scale, with diamond-paned windows that reached to the carved and painted ceiling two storeys high, and a fireplace at the far end that could have roasted a whole ox. A wilderness of carved desks and tables, Persian rugs, and luxuriously upholstered sofas and armchairs stretched between her and the fire, where the dark silhouettes of two or perhaps three people were reclining on seats close to the fire. The weak light from the windows was a pale grey-green, giving her a sense of being underwater, but at least it was much warmer here than in the foyer.

Emily didn't recognise anyone immediately as she started across the room, her eyes quickly adjusting to the dim light. After the cold white glare off of the snow outside, she had to concentrate a bit on not bumping into the furniture. She peered ahead, looking for platinum hair and grey eyes.

"Professor. Welcome, and good afternoon. I hope your journey was uneventful." Her gaze fell on someone who fit that description, but not the particular Malfoy she had been looking for. Draco Malfoy had disengaged himself from the gloom and come to meet her, looking every bit the young lordling in impeccably cut, bottle-green robes, his silver-blonde hair slicked back. He sounded self-conscious, this teenage boy, wrapping his tongue around the pleasantries of an adult aristocrat.

"Indeed it was, Draco, other than the weather. This snow and cold are just unrelenting."

"Would you care for some refreshment to warm you? Brandy, or mulled wine, perhaps?"

"Mulled wine would be lovely, thank you."

It seemed as though she had barely voiced her acceptance before a house-elf appeared at her elbow bearing a tall china mug of mulled wine on a silver tray. "Thank you."

The house-elf bobbed a desperate curtsey, squeaking, "You're welcome, Miss Professor, ma'am," and disappeared. The steaming hot wine, a fruity red burgundy infused with just the right amount of orange peel, clove, and allspice, was almost sinfully fragrant and delicious.

"You're home for the weekend, then, Draco?"

"Yes, Professor. I'm glad to be home – I find the to-do at school over the Triwizard Tournament distracts me from my studies. I'm rather disappointed to not be able to play Quidditch this year."

"I can see how you would be," she replied, holding the warmth of her cup gratefully between both hands. "I hope you're enjoying the fencing classes, though, if you miss playing sports."

He smiled genuinely at that. "Yes, I am. Your class is the only reason why I don't think this year is turning out to be a total waste of time."

She laughed. "I'm sorry to hear you're so disappointed. I'll have to teach you all my good attacks and defences, to console you for all this time away from Quidditch."

His face lit up. "Would you?"

"Sure. On this coming Thursday, I was planning on introducing everyone to some head parries – "

Draco had leaned an elbow against the left-hand gallery rail and gave every indication of wanting to prolong their chat, but another silky, drawling voice sounded at her right side.

"Draco. You haven't introduced me to your friend."

Not Lucius's voice, but similar. Her impression was of long, thick ash-blond hair, heavy dark-blond brows, cheekbones as high and chiseled as spearheads, and a sensuous, petulant mouth.

"Hullo, Uncle." Draco turned toward the newcomer, his scent radiating irritation at the interruption. "Professor, I'd like you to meet my uncle, Menzentius Black. Uncle, may I introduce Professor Emily Swain. She's teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts this year."

"Professor." He shook her hand, inclining his handsome head in a half-insolent nod of greeting.

"Mr. Black." Lucius had told her that he had no siblings – this must be Narcissa's brother, then. Narcissa's several-years' younger brother, from the look of him. He carried with him a strong scent of earlier indulgence in mulled wine and cigars, and an even stronger scent of twentysomething testosterone, which spiked upward in intensity when he approached her.

Menzentius Black struck up a conversation with her as though his nephew had ceased to exist. "So you teach Defence Against the Dark Arts, eh?"

"Yes, at Hogwarts."

"You like it, then?"

"Yes, very much."

"Draco's in your class, then?"

"Yes, he is."

"He a good student?"

"He's a fine student indeed." This Menzentius fellow's tone had a way of making the simplest question into a smutty double-entendre – one that she was evidently not quite mentally acute enough to understand. It didn't take more than a few minutes of this sort of thing before she was desperately plotting how to get rid of him, through violence if necessary. She tried to turn back to Draco, but he had moved off back toward the fire.

A moment later, she heard Draco's voice say distinctly: "She certainly still fancies you, doesn't she, Professor Snape?"

Emily darted a hard stare in the boy's direction – but then spotted Severus Snape sitting comfortably in the depths of one of the big armchairs, a mug of something steaming in his hand. What she first took in the dim light to be a heavy fur lap robe draped over one of his knees resolved into a giant black Newfoundland crouched beside him with her head in his lap, gazing up at him with adoring brown eyes. Snape was stroking her head with a languid gesture. Menzentius Black's attention turned briefly toward Professor Snape, and Emily used the opportunity to sidle away from him and take a seat on a little sofa on the opposite side of the fire.

Draco turned to her with the most boyish smile she had so far seen on his face. "Lady just loves Professor Snape. Whenever he's here, she wants to follow him around everywhere." Despite her wariness of the man, she had to admit that it was a very picturesque tableau he made, in that great old hall next to the blazing fire, with the head of that great fawning beast under his hand.

"Professor." Snape greeted her with cool formality. "I hope your journey was a pleasant one."

"Yes, it was fine," she answered in the same tone. "Yours?"

"Fine." He fell silent again, sipping from his cup.

Well, splendid then – everything was fine. She turned back to Draco. "Are we the first ones here, then?"

"Yes, but we're expecting the others to arrive any moment. Mother and Grandmother will be down shortly, and Father will be here any minute as well," the boy replied. She nodded. The undaunted Menzentius seated himself with insouciant grace on the arm of the sofa where she was sitting, and again began to try to engage her in conversation; again his idea of small talk consisted of leering at her while asking rapid-fire yes-or-no questions. She glanced in Snape's direction again, only to see him glance away from her, turning his gaze down to the dog. He drew the fingers of one hand down the silky top of her skull, and the creature closed her eyes and fairly trembled with adoration.

"Well, hello, everyone," called a familiar voice. "I'm so glad to see you all."

Their host had arrived.

He seemed to materialize from midair, sweeping down a spiral staircase in the far left corner of the room – and in the gloomy hall, Emily had barely noticed the staircase's existence until he made it real by descending it. Pale hair loose around his shoulders, dressed in grey velvet robes over a soft black silk shirt and black trousers. She had to stop herself from staring – seventeen years had gone by, but nothing could diminish his beauty. Embarrassingly, her heart gave a little splash in her chest as he sauntered across the hall toward the fireplace. She set her cup on a little side table and came forward to meet him. He took her hands between both of his again and bent to kiss her cheek.

She was accustomed to the typical pure-blooded polite kiss of greeting, that consisted of planting a kiss on the air beside her cheek – but not so from Lucius Malfoy. He pressed the hot imprint of his lips to her cheek – rather closer to her lips than her cheekbone. Scent of clean hair, clean skin, freshly pressed clothes, and the most fleeting breath of male arousal – but a second later he withdrew and had again become the perfect host.

"Welcome, Madam Professor." He made her title into an endearment. "So glad that we could finally entertain you at home."

"Thank you. I'm glad to be here." The elder Malfoy then turned toward Snape – somehow still managing to include Emily in his expansive sight.

"Severus, old man. I see we've managed to pry you out of your beloved dungeons, only to then pin you under a hundred-fifty pounds of dog. Lady, come here. She'll monopolise his and Draco's attentions all night if she's allowed," he said in an aside to Emily. The great beast stood and obediently put her muzzle into Lucius's hand. He absently patted her head.

Snape got lazily to his feet and shook his host's hand. "Lucius."

"It's good to see you, cousin."

Emily's gaze darted from Malfoy's face to Snape's. Cousin?

"Likewise. The Tournament has made things rather unbearable at Hogwarts in recent days. I'm glad of the time off."

"Well, then – I'm so pleased to give you the chance for a bit of a holiday. Incredible about the Potter boy being somehow chosen as fourth champion, isn't it? Who would have imagined."

Snape scowled deeply. "Nothing that boy does surprises me any longer. And Dumbledore is actually allowing him to compete, even though he's well underage."

"Yes, Draco wrote me the day it happened. Quite the scandal, isn't it?"

From behind them, a high, cultured feminine voice called to their host. "Lucius? Darling. Who's here?"

Everyone turned toward the voice. Emily immediately recognized Lucius's wife, the dazzlingly fair Narcissa Malfoy, approaching the group from the hallway beyond the foyer. With her was a slight, elderly woman, who walked in short steps, leaning heavily on Narcissa's arm.

Her initial impression, when Narcissa drew closer to the group assembled before the fireplace, was that the years had been as kind to her as they had been to her husband. Narcissa was as beautiful as ever, with a thick skein of burnished gold hair dressed in an elaborate upsweep. The patrician lines of her face and body were unchanged, and her blue, blue eyes were set off by her elegant day robes of a cornflower-blue velvet that swept the marble floor. Also unchanged was her habitual expression – that sour, sulky look that had always made Emily feel obligated to try to find what was bothering her and remedy it somehow. It was obvious that the stunning, aristocratic Narcissa Malfoy, with her wealthy, powerful, handsome husband, her perfect son, her magnificent estate, and her position in society, did not need any such attention or help from an infrequent visitor who lived very far in the periphery of her life – but that never stopped her from feeling that way anyway.

The woman on Narcissa's arm was tiny; clearly she had never been tall, and her advanced age and a pronounced dowager's hump had apparently continued the process. She wore complicated robes of black silk and lace, and her pure white hair was braided back in a little coronet on top of her head. Her eyes were the same cornflower blue as her daughter's, in a face very much wrinkled and made up. Her hands shook slightly as they rested on the head of a black cane with a silver handle. Narcissa helped her into one of the large armchairs in front of the fire, then turned to her guests.

"Severus, hello, darling, I'm so glad you could make it this year. It's shameful the way you neglect us – you owe me at least a dozen visits now," she said, but her scolding tone was belied by the warmth of her greeting – she put both hands on his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks.

Snape gave her a thin, indulgent smile and kissed her cheek. "With the chaos going on at Hogwarts this year, I may take you up on that. Soon you won't be able to get rid of me."

"I should never want to be rid of you." Narcissa then turned her attention to Emily, graciously clasping her hand. "Why hello, my dear. Good to see you again."

"Hello, Narcissa. It's lovely to see you." It bothered her that she had never known Narcissa terribly well; of the two, Lucius had always been her friend, and Narcissa her friend's wife, and the mother of her friend's son. Narcissa had become pregnant with Draco almost immediately after her marriage to Lucius, and from then on, Emily found that she rarely seemed to talk about anything but Draco – unless she was talking about what Draco was studying in school, or the latest thing she had bought for Draco.

"You look like you're holding up very well," Narcissa said, leaning forward and speaking in a reassuring undertone.

"Thank you very much."

"So, teaching at Hogwarts now. Draco tells me he's enjoying your class."

"I'm glad to hear it. He's very talented." Small talk never got any less inane for her, but of course the way to get along with any mother was to compliment her child.

"Wonderful." Narcissa glowed with pride. "Do excuse me now, I've got to see about the tea."

"Certainly. See you in a moment."

Professor Snape, she noticed, had gone down on one knee beside the woman in the armchair, and was speaking to her in a low voice, patting her hand. Unexpectedly, Emily felt a flicker of jealousy. So there were people to whom he occasionally bothered to be kind – relatives, and their dogs.

Lucius appeared at her elbow. "Oh, come here, Emily, there's someone I'd like you to meet." He bent down and kissed the old woman's cheek. "Hello, Druella. May I introduce Professor – "

The elderly Mrs. Black looked straight at Emily. Her brows clenched.

"Who are you?" she demanded, point-blank, interrupting in the middle of Lucius's polite introduction.

It was simply the petulant bluntness of the mildly infirm elderly, of course, nothing to be offended by – but Emily felt herself blush anyway. "I'm Emily, madam," she said gently, stepping forward to greet the woman. "And you must be Draco's grandmother. I'm one of his teachers, at Hogwarts. Good afternoon."

The wet, quivering mouth was pressed into tight, lipsticked creases as Mrs. Black studied her face. "Big eyes you've got," she said. Her tone was challenging – account for those offending orbs right now, young lady.

Emily frowned for a second – big eyes?

Oh, yes, her eyes.

In the Muggle world, she cast a mild Glamour – a visual illusion, another form of Fae magic – on her face to give her eyes and ears an entirely human appearance. In the British Wizarding world, she didn't bother to maintain that kind of thing – it was far too much fuss for her taste, and she had thought that in a place where Madam Hooch's hawk-yellow eyes and Mad-Eye Moody's magical prosthetic eye went entirely unremarked, her own eyes would be seen as unremarkable enough as well. As in the manner of most Fae changelings, her pupils and dark brown irises were capable of opening very wide by human standards. In the dim light of the Malfoys' hall, she realized, they were probably very dilated, to make use of the weak available light.

"The sunlight isn't strong today," she replied – which obviously wasn't enough of a response to suit Mrs. Black. She looked at Emily for a long moment, then turned back to her conversation with Professor Snape.

Well. That was abrupt.

Both Mrs. Black's first remark, and reaction to her answer, mystified Emily entirely – it would never have occurred to her to remark 'What blue eyes you've got' to Mrs. Black, and then act as though she required an explanation as to how her eyes came to be that way. In all, the introduction to Lucius's mother-in-law had been thoroughly disconcerting. To make matters worse, Professor Snape was looking at her again, but of course his face was entirely unreadable.

Lucius put a hand on her arm. "Come, dear, you haven't seen the sun room yet. Let's see if Narcissa needs help with anything, shall we?"